A poet sitting in front of their desk. A pen in their hand, a paper in front of them.
They stare thoughtful into space, creating the perfect piece of art.
Their mind rushes and filters the inspirational flow, picks put the best parts.
A sentence built in their minds, followed by a machinelike action;
The pen rushes to the paper, the hand moves fast across the white surface,
Smudged blue words cover the once empty piece, and a beautiful story is fashioned.

Yet there is a danger in the art provided, a risk that is taken by poets all around.
The danger of bringing your thoughts on paper, letting your inner self flow into the poem,
Your work, completely exposing you to thirds and spilling all your secrets.
The revealed truth about a poet, lies in their poems and even though they pick their words,
A good listener can still find their original meanings and constructions.

Poets can spill entire secrets in just a single verse and
paraphrase the smell of a flower in a poem over twenty pages,
yet the poet remains the same. Exposed, figured out and still
completely alone with their thoughts, until they find another piece of paper, resting their pen in their hand.